


CASE TRINITY BLACK

by YoursTruly (Lyscey)



Category: Laundry - Charles Stross, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cultists, Deep Ones, I promise, Lovecraftian, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Magical Realism, Mild Gore, Multi, No actual sex with tentacles, Polyamory, Relationship Negotiation, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:44:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2364728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/pseuds/YoursTruly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Laundry is an ultra-secret branch of the British government in charge of collecting, cataloging, and maintaining the status quo in occult matters concerning the empire. Sherlock Holmes is one of their star field agents. He's also the best detective in London. When his two professions overlap, in the form of RAMC veteran John Watson, life gets a bit... even more complicated.<br/>~OR~<br/>An OT3 origin story, in which Sherlock is still the worlds singular consulting detective, but only between his assignments from ‘The Laundry’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kestrel337](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/gifts).



> This is essentially a crossover with The Laundry Files novels by Charles Stross, but I've been assured you do not have to know anything about the Laundry to enjoy this fic!  
> This is for Kestrel337 who wanted OT3 (YES) and asked "What is someone were a modern-day mage/wizard" and I figured if Sherlock were going to be a magic user it should definitely be a magic that revolved around his phone (since we all know how much he loves it) and considering his brother's "minor position in the British government", this popped in and took over my brain. I hope you like it, Kestrel337!  
> This is a WIP, and planned to go 5 or 6 chapters. It will update every Saturday until it's finished. You can also catch it at call-me-yt.tumblr.com/tagged/casetrinityblack

**Five Years Ago**

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“It’s your new identity. Everything you’ll need to assume it is in the envelope taped to the inside cover of that folder: birth certificate, passport, driving license; though I don’t know why I bothered with that one,” his brother replies, with an eye roll and a sigh. “New badge, warrant card, and entrance codes to memorize as well. They go into effect at midnight so learn them by the morning and destroy the sheet in your fireplace. Give me all your old identification so I can have it incinerated.”

“You can’t be serious. What’s wrong with the name I have? You’re forcing me to choose between William, which is far too formal and will make me stand out unduly, ‘Bill’, which is unacceptable for obvious reasons, and _Sherlock_. Where did you even hear a name like Sherlock? Are you absolutely certain this is necessary?” He briefly considers that he’s being childish, then dismisses the idea as unimportant. He likes the identity he has; it’s the one he’s been able to keep the longest.

“Now that both our parents are deceased only we know the other’s true name; you know better than most the significance of that in our line of work. This is the protocol. For once in your life, don’t argue against what you know to be in your best interest.”

Mouth open to snap at his brother again, he pauses and reconsiders. Perhaps this is the opportunity he’s been waiting for. Being an inter-dimensional James Bond for Her Majesty’s ultra-secret Laundry has always appealed to his dramatic tendencies and adrenaline addiction, and the higher mathematics of computational demonology have been enough to keep his brain alive and humming like an engine so far, but he’s in his 30’s now with almost ten years of service under his belt. Part of him is getting restless: rolling his eyes over bureaucracy, bristling at orders, annoyance at the kid gloves he’s handled with because his brother is the boss. There’s only so much one can learn about Dho-Nha geometry and Hamiltonian networks before it becomes boring again. He’s an excellent field agent; consistently praised for his situational awareness, observation and anticipation, and encyclopedic knowledge of runes and alchemical symbols. This new identity could be his chance for the brain work he’s been craving. Puzzles. Mysteries. Earthly ones, that don’t involve tentacles or demonic possession.

“If I never did that what would we have to talk about?” he replies in a flat tone, rather charitably in his mind, and is rewarded with a rare, genuine smile. Well, the left half of one. He snaps the folder shut and tucks it under his arm so he can get to his wallet and toss the old ID cards on his brother’s spacious desk.

“Get some rest. It’s going to be a long week and I’d like to spare the office exposure to you in a strop.”

“How gentlemanly of you, Rich-”

“Mycroft,” his brother corrects over the top of him.

He gapes. “Now, that _must_ be a joke.”

The man scowls and sits up straighter in his chair. “That will be all, agent.”

Dismissed, he grins in triumph and leaves the office, great coat swirling behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mild gore: descriptions of a crime scene, but no violence.

**Two Years Later**

 

Sherlock throws his right arm and shoulder over the side of the bed to grope for his ringing phone. Once he’s got it in hand he swipes his thumb across the screen and rests it on the side of his face so his arm can drop back down to the floor; muscle control is too much to ask right now. His mouth feels like someone is rising bread in it.

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”

“Were you asleep? It’s 2 PM, mate.” DI Lestrade sounds incredulous. If he knew where Sherlock had been last night (staking out the home of a highly-placed Brotherhood cult member, hoping to catch the delivery of an artifact the Laundry is interested in acquiring, nearly being spotted and having to run for his life) he wouldn’t be.

“Rough night,” he deadpans. “Do you want something from me or not?”

“Yeah. Serial killing. Highly ritualized. One crime scene, two victims, bodies displayed and trophies removed from the scene. My profiler had a look for about thirty seconds, then went outside to wretch. I could use your eyes on this.”

Sherlock is suddenly much more awake. “Where?”

“Belvedere. Near the sewage treatment works.”

“Ugh. In an hour good enough?”

“It’ll have to be. Hurry Sherlock, everyone is getting fidgety. This is gruesome,” Lestrade replies, and rings off.

He sighs and lets the phone slide off his cheek and fall to the mattress as he pushes himself up out of bed. He heads for the bathroom but reconsiders, pauses to light a cigarette first; if he has his morning smoke now he can brush his teeth in the shower and be out the door the moment his hair is dry. It’s less satisfying than he’d hoped, the pack is stale, though only four days old. Evan at the corner store must be in trouble with the mob again, accepting old or fake merchandise to pass off to customers to pay off his debts. Sherlock idly wonders if Evan’s holding for them too, but shakes the thought from his head and presses his thumbs to his eyes for good measure.

It’s early days still in the world of life-long sobriety, but Sherlock just recently celebrated one year sober. Well, Mycroft celebrated: he commissioned Sherlock’s favorite coffee cake from Mrs. Hudson downstairs, the former theology professor now under the protection and employ of the Laundry and owner of this lovely building, and they both came up to play board games with him. On one hand, Sherlock appreciated their congratulations on the most difficult thing he’d ever done in his life, on the other (considering it was also the anniversary of his rock-bottom shattering overdose) he bristled at the imposition of what he considered to be a pity-party. The entire thing was declared a shambles not an hour in and Mycroft left resigned while Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly and kissed Sherlock’s cheek on her way out. He got a certain amount of satisfaction from the fight he put up and enjoyed the cake and tea alone in his flat(which is probably how Mycroft planned it from the beginning, damn him).

Lestrade didn’t come in person, but sent a small detail over to toss his flat for drugs. When they were finished, and empty handed, one of the officers approached him and put a pack of his favored cigarettes in his hand before leaving. There was a note on the front, in Lestrade’s untidy scrawl: _Feed the beast. You earned it. See you soon._

Sherlock had been so grateful he very nearly cried. Instead, he put the pack into the freezer and went about putting his things back where they belonged.

He thinks about Lestrade often in these quiet moments, when the warmth of the water and ease of repetitive tasks subdue his brain a bit. Sherlock hasn’t had an intimate relationship with someone in a very long time. He’s always been somewhat withdrawn, unaware of other people’s feelings and dismissive of social cues. His mother often called him ‘standoffish’, but even Sherlock knew that was the gentlest word she had for ‘rude’. It never mattered in their little private circle of government, aristocracy, and higher learning. No one was impressed by his intelligence or talents at home, school, or the Laundry. Pleased by and more than happy to make use of, yes. But not impressed.

Lestrade on the other hand was stunned and flustered when Sherlock showed off. He was visibly proud of Sherlock’s work and magnanimous in the face of Sherlock’s bad attitude. He provided work, distraction from tedium, and camaraderie, all while giving Sherlock boundaries in the form of the law. Which, to be fair, it’s easy to forget about when you’re one of a few hundred people in the world who know about the existence of parallel universes and sentient beings older than the sun.

Sherlock has developed odd, warm feelings for Lestrade since he stopped taking cocaine. They make his throat feel irritated and his fingers feel swollen when he thinks about them. It’s potentially not a healthy way to feel about the first man to show him positive attention since he became an adult, who also happens to be ten years older than him and the person who found him sprawled on the living room floor in the throes of overdose last year. He let’s it be. If he’s completely honest with himself, he likes it. Just because he can’t act on it doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it for himself.

By the time he’s clean and dry Lestrade’s texted him the address and told him again to ‘move your arse.’ He dresses himself in a charcoal suit and black shirt, leaving the collar open, and picks at his hair with a wide-toothed comb so it can curl the way it wants without frizzing. With his calf-length wool coat on, mobile phone in one had and cigarettes in the other, and his reflection staring back at him in the full mirror he has a thought: _Perhaps Mycroft is right; maybe I do take this James Bond thing a little too seriously._

He snorts at his own joke and deposits the contents of his hands into his pockets. His laptop wakes as he passes by it on the kitchen table and he hits a few command keys to adjust his various levels of security warding around the flat. Glancing over his shoulder to his open bedroom door, he watches the wire pentacle above the door glow to life while the room beyond grows dimmer and dimmer, until it looks like walking over the threshold is to be swallowed into a black hole. Perfect. One last look at the levels on the screen and he’s off down the stairs. Sometimes he worries a bit about how old the wiring is in this building and whether all his gadgets and occult circuitry will overload it one day. Then he remembers he can just demand the Laundry, or better yet, Mycroft personally, fix it and he feels fine again.

There’s always a slight buzzing feeling as he crosses the heavy-duty protection ward around the foundation of the building and out onto the street and he cringes a bit against the ringing in his ears. He stops a cab easily and gives the address to Lestrade’s murder before texting his brother.

**Case. Don’t bother me. -SH**

**Of course not. It’s not as if you have other responsibilities. Far be it from me to remind you of them. -MH**

**Get bent. -SH**

**~*~**

When Sherlock arrives at the disused warehouse Lestrade is waiting outside for him. Lestrade gives the signal for an officer to let him through the yellow police tape and offers him a mask as he approaches. He waves it off and strides through the open double doors.

Just inside, he pauses to take in some sensory data. Temperature, unusual sounds, aromas. He can smell the blood and brackish water underneath it, but no decay. He closes his eyes and tilts his head slightly to the right, assimilating.

 “Used to belong to an importer of luxury food items from the continent. It’s refrigerated, and those roll doors open right onto the river for deliveries. Out of business though, for some time.”

 He’s talking to himself, but Lestrade answers anyway. “Right. Owner got a call from the electric company this morning saying someone had turned something on in the building that was drawing power and if he didn’t want to be hit with big charges he better sort it out. He came down here around 1, heard the refrigeration unit running, and found this.”

 Lestrade gestures toward the tableau at the far end of the warehouse, opposite the delivery doors, and Sherlock follows the motion of his hand. He takes in the scene staged with the two victims and immediately has seven theories. He begins seeking out and taking in details:

 Two victims. Similar age and height, but different races. Positioned side by side, seated in a pair of simple chairs, nude. Not bound there but leaning slightly against each other, his left and her right hand clasped together with laced fingers. Each with their opposite hand severed, their torso split open raggedly and a large portion of their internal organs missing. It must be a large portion, being so obvious even from this distance. Eyes closed and heads just touching at the crown, they could be mistaken for sleeping if not for the paleness of bloodless flesh and the short garlands of sea weed around their necks and ankles.

 Four theories. He eyes his mental list critically, glaring at the entry at the bottom, bright red and demanding attention. He hopes he can dismiss it soon, otherwise there will be a lot of paperwork.

 “Has anyone checked for blood on the floor?” he asks without looking away, still studying the jagged edges of the cuts.

 “Yes. It’s been washed away but it was there. I’m not actually an idiot, despite what you may think.” Anderson. Not worthy of a response.

 “Any sign of the missing pieces?”

 “No. Either he took them with him or they’re in the river. I’ve got some people searching the skips for ten blocks around, but I’m not holding much hope,” Lestrade replies, grimly.

 Three theories. The hateful red is getting brighter by the second.

 “Can you confirm they’re a couple?”

“No. If we find their clothes hopefully we can ID them, but we won’t know their association until then.”

 Well, that could go either way. If he’s right he’ll have to throw the investigation off, get them to close up the crime scene and come back himself tonight to deal with it. Unfortunately, since he’s become sober he’s not very good at lying to Lestrade.

“You’re looking for a male, mid-thirties, loner, bitter, your standard serial killer stuff,” he hedges. “Try dock workers, or someone that works with machinery on the waterfront who would know how to operate the refrigerators in here. Previous employees would be even better.”

 Lestrade side-eyes him. He’s being too vague and he knows it, but he doesn’t want them deciding to stake out the warehouse and stumble into the middle of what he thinks is going to happen tonight.

 “Look for overlap with fisherman, sailors, divers; anything to do with the water. That seaweed is native and it’s use as part of the staging but not of the crime is significant. The abdominal incision and dismemberment seem to have been performed with the same object. Powerful but not exceptionally sharp. Perhaps a pair of shears or heavy chopping knife like you might find on a commercial boat.”

 The DI blinks at him, but seems to accept his assessment after a moment and starts barking out assignments. Sherlock edges slowly closer to the bodies now that no one is looking at him. He wants to get a better look at those wounds, see which organs specifically are missing, grab a clump of the female victim’s hair in his fist and see if it crunches with sea salt, just to be sure…

 “Oi! Freak! No touching!”

 Sherlock startles slightly, but is pleased to find it didn’t show. It’s not the first time he’s been called ‘freak’, and it won’t be the last. “Sargent Donovan,” he sighs. “Lovely to see you and yesterday’s clothes, as always.” He pops his coat collar up and walks quickly out the door and onto the street, texting on the way:

  **We may have an unauthorized beaching. -SH**

 The reply comes quickly and unhelpfully:

  **Investigate and take appropriate action, agent. Shall I come hold your hand? -MH**

 Bastard.

**~*~**

Sherlock returns to the riverfront at dusk, asking the cabbie to drop him off down the road and considering his entry options as we walks. There are no permanent fixtures to light the small parking lot in front of the building, but he noticed motion activated lights above the doors this afternoon so he’ll have to avoid those. From his observations earlier the roll doors open right onto the water with no way to walk out to them from outside the building, so that leaves the metal door on the right side, leading into a slim alley between it and another warehouse, as his only option.

Making himself as inconspicuous as possible, he weaves through the close, fish-and-diesel smelling spaces between buildings until he finds the right one. The door is two inch thick steel, in a steel frame, with a large electronic keypad lock. There are plenty of ways to get to the other side of that door, with or without magic, but first: probably best to have a look and make sure he got here first.

 He pulls his mobile out of his coat pocket and opens his scrying app. The screen lights up and he can see the door through the phone’s camera. He angles his body a bit to get the best view of the whole warehouse floor he can, selects the algorithm he wants and watches as the geometry appears in bright green, flowing lines over the camera feed. The steel and concrete begin to shimmer and fade and what’s left is a foggy impression of what’s on the other side. Sherlock is relieved to see no opaque black shapes on the screen; no other living beings inside.

 The keypad lock is easy to defeat. Most people set a new key pin, but never bother to change the authorization code from the manufacturer. He enters the eight digit code, waits for the flashing light to indicate it’s ready for a new entry, and resets the pin. Now he simply has to find a suitable place to hide and wait for an opportunity to trap the murderer.

 “Sherlock, what in bloody hell?”

 Sherlock spins on the balls of his feet to find a very disgruntled looking DI Lestrade standing in the dark doorway. “What are you doing here?” he asks, admittedly rather stupidly.

 “I followed you. I knew you were holding out on me this afternoon at the scene, so I’ve been on you all day knowing you’d lead me somewhere I needed to be.”

Panic is cold in Sherlock’s stomach and rising with every minute that ticks by. He’s certain that he knows what’s happening here now and he has to get Lestrade away before he sees something he shouldn’t.

 “You have to go. You won’t want to be here to see this.”

 “See what? What are you here for Sherlock? Are you buying drugs? _Are you involved in this?_ ”

 “No!” Well… “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking. You do not want to know, inspector, I assure you. Walk away.”

 “I can’t do that Sherlock. I’m not going to let you do something stupid. If something from the old days has come back to bite you, if you owe someone money, I want to help-”

 They’re both distracted by the sudden rattling of the rolling metal bay doors at the end of the room.

 “What the…” Lestrade begins, just as Sherlock mutters, “fuck!”, grabs his wrist and drags him to the back of the warehouse to duck behind some stacked office furniture. The door continues to shake as they watch it from cover, Lestrade’s mouth slack and speechless as the padlocked chain holding it closed snaps and it flutters up and open to the water.

 Lestrade whispers, “Sherlock…”

 “Shh! I tried to get you to leave, and you wouldn’t! Now don’t move, and try not to look at them; your mind may not be able to take it.”

 That has him looking expectantly at Sherlock, which is unnerving but better than the alternative: as far as he knows Lestrade’s never been in the presence of Deep Ones before and could go raving mad the moment he lays eyes on one. The DI is watching Sherlock intently as Sherlock shuffles through apps on his phone, vibrating with nerves but his mouth firmly clamped shut.

 Sherlock sighs. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: we’re going to wait here for them both to surface and let them get… entangled. Then I’m going to use a binding ward to trap them until someone can come remove them. They don’t hear very well so we can talk as long as we keep our voices low, but they feel vibration well and have excellent eye sight, so stay down and don’t move too much and they won’t notice us. Probably too distracted by each other to care anyway.”

 “I don’t understand.”

 “Of course you don’t. Just do it.”

 A wet slapping sound is heard echoing around the room and Sherlock shuts off his mobile screen and raises himself enough to see long pairs of black tentacles latching onto the poured concrete floor, muscles rippling as they lift a vaguely humanoid body out of the water. It stands and Sherlock recognizes it as male, recently fed, and holding a traditional courtship gift: two severed human hands. He’s also decorated himself with the missing intestines to show his potential mate his caste: warrior. His glowing eyes survey the room, narrowing and becoming brighter as he sees the tableau missing. Sherlock hopes it won’t do too much searching for the bodies, he needs time to set up his trap.

 The being doesn’t have long enough to wait for his mate to search. A decidedly more human looking hand appears, and after it a long, sleek, feminine body. Her skin is silvery where his is more translucent and gray, and she has no tentacles, but thick webbing between her fingers and suckers on her palms. The pink gill slits just above her clavicles open and flutter and Sherlock gasps.

 “ _What?_ ” Lestrade whispers, obviously trying not to panic.

 “A sea-born. They’re exceedingly rare, I’ve never seen one before. No wonder he made her a gift.”

 “By gift do you mean my crime scene? That thing killed two people as- _as a dowry?_ ”

 “Got it in one. He would have wanted to impress her; type three hybrids almost never want to mate with true Deep Ones. It’s almost a shame to interrupt them. Their offspring would be extraordinary.”

 Lestrade stares in disbelief but Sherlock is too fascinated by the pair slowly approaching each other in the moonlight. The male offers his mate the severed hands, she smiles and bows in acceptance, and he makes a pleased, inhuman noise before starting to wind his tentacles around her body.

 Sherlock pries his eyes away from them and down to his phone. Now that they’re engaged with one another he can work. He nudges Lestrade with his elbow and offers up his mobile. “Here, hold the light on my hands so I can see.”

 Lestrade does and Sherlock begins stripping the ends of wires and splicing them together into a large circle, which he then grafts on to the end of a power cable he can plug into the charging jack of him mobile. He swaps objects with Lestrade, opens his geometry app, digs a stylus out of his pocket and starts drawing the arcane figures.

 “Listen to me, Lestrade. This is a circle of binding. When I’m finished drawing it I’m going to have to sneak closer, toss that cable around our honeymooners, and plug it into my phone. I may need your help. Do you think you’re able to do that?”

 “What do I have to do?”

 “We’ll approach them from opposite sides, they’ll notice you first and give me the opportunity to trap them.”

 “I’m sorry, did you just ask me to be a decoy?”

 Sherlock doesn’t dignify that with a response.

 “Is it dangerous?”

 “Very slightly. By now they’re so wrapped up in each other, so to speak, it’s unlikely they’ll be able to attack you at all.”

 Lestrade doesn’t look reassured, but says, “Alright. Which way?”

 “You take the right, I’ll come around behind her. She’s more likely to be aware of the room than the male anyway.”

 “Right. Well, just in case,” he shrugs, grabs Sherlock’s shirt collar, and kisses him soundly. Closed mouthed, but insistent and hot.

 Sherlock is momentarily flabbergasted, but gathers his wits quickly as Lestrade steps out from behind their cover and starts walking leisurely in a wide arc around the right side of the room.

 He was right, the female notices first. She breaks the kiss she was engaged in with her paramour to shake her head violently at Lestrade and shout, “Run!” Sherlock can see him flinch like he wants to bolt, but then the male’s head swivels round and Lestrade freezes under his glowing stare.

 Acting quickly, Sherlock aims as best he can and throws his binding circle like a lasso, and misses. He pulls it back to him as the creatures try to pull apart, their wet, shining skin sticking together, suckers releasing from flesh with loud pops. He makes another try and succeeds this time, the ring falling around them and to the ground and Sherlock nearly breaks the plug jamming it into the base of his mobile. The wire circle hums to life and starts glowing a rosy red at its joints.

 Reasonably assured of everyone’s safety, he sets the phone down and goes to Lestrade, still standing like a statue, wide eyes fixed on the two lovers in the binding ring slowly disentangling and trying their best to cover themselves.

 “Lestrade. Lestrade, don’t look at them, look at me. Greg, it’s over now, we’re safe.” He begins to worry when he hasn’t gotten a response after a full minute. He taps, prods, and shakes the man by his shoulders, but nothing works. Then he has an idea.

 He tips Lestrade’s chin slightly up and towards him gently, with both hands, and kisses his slack lips. It’s like an electric shock. Suddenly Lestrade’s hands are on the back of neck and he’s being kissed hungrily. Lestrade kisses with his whole body, quickly pressing himself against every dip and curve of Sherlock until they’re touching all down the front of their bodies. It’s the most physical contact he’s had with another person in years. He gasps into Lestrade’s mouth and is mortified to find he’s trembling. They pull back slowly and look into each other’s eyes.

 “Hi.”

 “Hello,” Sherlock replies, and cringes at his own inanity.

 “Are you alright?”

 “Yes, fine. Are you? Any new voices in your head? Desires to pull your own hair out and eat it?”

 “Ugh. Does that really happen?”

 “To some people. I think you’ll be fine, your eyes are clear and you’re speaking coherently. We should have you checked out at the office though. Just a minute while I call for an extraction.” He pats himself down before it hits him. “Shit.”

 “Oh Christ, what now?”

 “Can I borrow your phone?”

**~*~**

Much later, in Mycroft’s top floor office at the Laundry, while waiting for the British Government to grace them with his presence and give them the ok to go home, Lestrade breaks a two minute kiss to pant into Sherlock’s mouth, “What- umm… Are we doing this now? Kissing?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock says, and leans in to steal a short, firm press of lips.

“Yes, Sherlock, I understand that we’re kissing right now, but are we kissing from now on? Are we going on dates? Are we- Christ, I don’t even know if you’re a sexual person. What does this mean?”

Sherlock hadn’t considered that. He understood immediately that Lestrade’s first kiss had been an anxiety reaction, born of fear that Sherlock’s plan would get one or both of them killed. In the privacy of his thoughts Sherlock flattered himself with the idea Lestrade had done it because he’d always wanted to, and would regret it if he died without having the chance. Their second kiss was simpler: shock value and external stimulus to bring Lestrade out of a potentially dangerous trance; Lestrades extremely gratifying reaction, not to mention his own, not withstanding. Now though… now the adrenaline had faded, the dangerous creatures were captured and being relocated to their ancestral breeding grounds where they belonged, and yet the kissing continued. Another heated kiss had blossomed out of relief while they were still at the warehouse waiting for containment agents to come retrieve them and their prisoners; and again from giggles at the absurdity of what they’d just done on the cab ride back to be debriefed.

The kissing they’ve been doing in the office is different. It feels different, and Sherlock can tell Lestrade feels it too. His throat is tight and his palms are too warm. They stare at each other for a long moment before Sherlock has any idea what he wants to say. “I-” he begins, but startles and pulls away sharply when the office door opens and his brother steps in, still reading the open file in his hands.

“You were correct Sherlock, totally unrelated to the treaty renegotiation. Simple case of an over zealous bridegroom trying to endear his new mate. Who, incidentally, is a very skilled sorceress, speaks three languages, and will be coming to work for us. All in all, I’m very pleased with your performance here. There is one small problem.” Mycroft looks up, eyes darting between Sherlock and Lestrade. Sherlock tries to rein in his expression but Lestrade is the very picture of ‘caught out’ and he can see Mycroft put it together in an instant.

“Well,” he addresses Sherlock, “I suppose it won’t be a problem, then?”

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “Not a problem at all.”

“Very well then. We’ll discuss your security clearance and pay grade another time, Detective Inspector. Good night.”

Mycroft’s smile is calculatedly polite, but his body language clearly says ‘Get out’, so Sherlock grabs Lestrade by the cuff of his jacket and leads him past Mycroft and into the hallway.

“What did he mean by ‘problem’?” Lestrade asks as Sherlock flees the building, dragging him behind.

“You’ve seen a lot of things tonight you’re not supposed to know exist. He was attempting to subtly assess whether you could be trusted with national security or if he was going to kill you.”

“Lovely. So, that was you saving my life for a second time tonight. Guess I owe you double.”

“Buy me a pack of cigarettes,” Sherlock replies, grinning.

“I’ll by you dinner.”

Sherlock is about to say “not hungry” when he finds himself pushed bodily into the wall with Lestrade’s big hands on his waist.

“I’ll buy you dessert too.” His voice is low, gravely, and his hip bones are a sharp pressure against Sherlock’s own.

Sherlock’s head falls back and thuds against the plaster. “And breakfast?” he asks, breathless, tipping his pelvis forward for a better assessment of Lestrade’s erection.

“For the rest of your life if you want. God, if I thought I couldn’t walk away from you before… I should. I should be running for my life, but you. Are. So. Worth it.” He growls out the words against Sherlock’s pouting lips, little sucking kisses punctuating his words.

Sherlock can’t take any more of this. Not here. “Take me home. If we stay here much longer we’ll run into a courier or an archivist. You do not want to meet some of the things that work the night shift at the Laundry.”

Then they’re both laughing again, running down the hall toward the stairs and the real world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two (more) years later...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another mild gore warning: vague descriptions of surgery and medical experiments on humans.  
> I hope this isn't getting too dark for anyone... I'm trying to balance the supernatural elements with some irreverence from our boys, so I hope that's working. Oh yeah, and I wrote porn, so enjoy that!

Colonel Sebastian Moran, MD FRCS, is approximately three days away from being implicated and arrested for treason, criminal malpractice, and multiple violations of the Geneva Convention. At this point there’s nothing he can do to stop it, and not even destroying evidence would save his career or his future outside of a prison cell. Five years in this Gods forsaken desert, a military hospital in the middle of a war, performing all manner of unnecessary surgeries, distasteful experiments on his own patients, even stealing classified Army intelligence and committing murder, all in the service of the Black Pharaoh. He’s led two lives since he came to Afghanistan: one of a personable but bookish surgeon, specializing in cardiothoracic, with a taste for beer, sharp eye for diagnosis, and a polite disinterest in golf; the other a dark world, inside a secret laboratory populated by human bodies in various states of animation. He could feel his humanity receding with every minute spent there, being overtaken by something bigger, something crueler, something _else_. He did their bidding, tirelessly, and without question, because every bloody, failed procedure brought them closer to the coming of the Priest. He _wants_ to see the world held in the black palms of the Pharaoh. He is a true believer. After all of that, despite his devotion and when he may have finally perfected the summoning grid and the procedure to make it work, they’re going to allow him to be devoured by the wolves of government and medical ethics, buried deep in esoteric history books, branded a war criminal.

He can’t let that happen.

Moran opens the filing cabinet on the right side of his desk and grabs the clump of new patient files in the front. He’s supposed to review them to prepare for rounds in the morning, but right now he has a much more important reason to look through them: finding a suitable host.

The first is no good. An IED victim: second degree burns, double amputee, being held in intensive care because of his high risk of infection. He’d never make it through the surgery and Moran can’t risk losing the grid; if the man dies after it’s adhered he can’t retrieve it and he won’t have time to make another. The next three were all in the same accident with him. Multiple traumatic injuries and organ damage all around. He’s starting to lose hope as he gets to the bottom of the pile, but then he finds it.

_Captain Watson, John H., MD; RAMC, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.  
GSW to the left shoulder; required extensive surgery to repair broken ribs, punctured lung, damaged pericardium, and shattered scapula. Infection at wound site currently being treated with high dose penicillin. Patient breathing independently, but should be kept sedated for 24-36 hours until swelling subsides and pain will be manageable with morphine._

Yes. This is the one. He can picture the procedure clearly in his mind’s eye: It’ll be easy to reopen the other doctor’s incisions from the lung repair that morning and gain access to Watson’s heart. His ribs should still be pliable, not having had enough time to even begin knitting from the force of the rib spreader. He’ll use whatever sutures are there as a guide to the weak spots in the pericardium so he can open it gently and place the tissue membrane, meticulously impregnated with gold thread in the precise geometric curves to open a dimensional gate, onto the man’s still beating heart. If he’s been successful this time it will adhere to the muscle and the kinetic energy from the Captain’s pulse will be enough to activate the grid, but not actually create the portal. Any future x-rays he’ll need won’t include his actual heart muscle, so no one will find the implant. Watson will go home with the address to a demigod embossed on the surface of his heart and no one will be the wiser. Moran will call professor Moriarty, give Watson’s name, and Brotherhood members can pick him up to complete the ritual in a Place of Power.

They’d have to save him then. Moriarty wouldn’t abandon him after that.

Moran pages through the file to the personal identification sheet, muttering “please, please, please,” under his breath, like praying. The relief when he finds what he’s looking for leaves him slightly light headed. He reads it again, just to be sure: Home of record: _Greater London, England._

Moran retrieves the unregistered satellite phone from his briefcase and presses the speed dial for his Brotherhood contact in town. It’s answered on the first ring.

“It’s me. I need you to pick up a patient and drive it to the lab tonight. Get a remains transport truck and a nurse and meet me at the morgue exit in 45 minutes.”

The man on the phone gives an affirmative in Arabic, but Moran’s already hanging up. He slips the phone into the pocket of his white coat and leaves his office, headed for the second floor and John Watson.

**~*~**

**Meanwhile, in London**

 

When Greg comes home from work he finds Sherlock sitting at the desk by the open window, a contemplative expression on his face, typing leisurely on his laptop with his left hand and flicking cigarette ash down onto the sidewalk with the other.

“Sherlock, don’t smoke in here! At least get an ash tray.”

“Busy. Thinking.”

Greg stifles a long-suffering sigh, to avoid Sherlock’s glaring, stroppy wrath, but can’t quite contain the eye roll. Sherlock’s not looking at him anyway. “We’re meant to be quiting. You agreed. It’s going to be ten times harder if everything in the flat smells like cigarettes.”

A noncommittal “mmm” is all he receives in response, so he gives it up for now and goes to the kitchen to make tea.

“Had a good day at work today. I found-”

“Can’t hear you from in there!” Sherlock shouts, distractedly. Greg knows Sherlock can hear him perfectly well and just doesn’t want to be bothered. He makes the cranky brat a cup of tea anyway. After placing it quietly on the desk within Sherlock’s reach, Greg grabs the cigarette from between his fingers and chucks it out the window.

Sherlock gapes. “What’s wrong with you? That was helping!”

“The point is to stop breathing smoke. Besides, I thought I had nicotine patches at work so I didn’t put one on this morning before I left. I was wrong and the smell of that thing was killing me. Try that gum I got you if you need a hit so bad.”

“No, no, it was the smell I wanted in the first place!” He shuts the lap top far harder than necessary, slides down in the chair until he can comfortably steeple his fingers in front of his lips, and fumes. “This is intolerable. No physical evidence, no crime scene, no witnesses to interview. All I have to work with is this incomplete intelligence file compiled by our incompetent military liaison. I’ve been looking at it for hours and I can only identify one new code word: MORIARTY.”

Greg flops down on the couch and sets his mug on the coffee table. “What’s Moriarty?” He knows asking Sherlock questions at times like this can backfire spectacularly, but he’s genuinely curious. Watching Sherlock work, even when he’s stuck and just spinning his tires looking for something solid to give him traction, is captivating. It makes him feel like a kid again, wound up and giddy for the next thing to come out of Sherlock’s mouth. He smiles fondly at Sherlock’s profile.

“I’ve absolutely no idea.” Those sharp gray eyes swing toward Greg, blink, and he can physically see Sherlock’s full attention shift onto him. His smile breaks into a full-fledged grin. “What are you so happy about?”

“Oh no, I tried to tell you earlier and you didn’t have the time of day for me. If you want to know you’ll have to deduce it, bright boy.”

Sherlock swings his legs around to the side of the chair so he’s facing Greg completely, bent forward at the waist with his elbows on his thighs and hands hanging between his spread knees. He regards Greg for a moment longer with narrowed eyes and his head tipped just to the right, like he always does when he’s compiling information. Christ, that head tilt is predatory. Sherlock rises from the chair, crosses the few feet between them, and deposits himself in Greg’s lap, knees on either side of Greg’s hips.

“Hmm,” he begins, rolling the first button on Greg’s dress shirt between his finger and thumb. “You said you forgot a patch this morning, but you don’t smell like smoke and you despise that gum, so you managed without a cigarette today. You’ve always been a stress smoker so it must have been an easy day. I don’t mean an office day, you find those more stressful than actual crime scenes. Must be a case then, but not just any case; that point in an investigation where things start coming together and every leap gives you something new and leads you somewhere helpful. You wore a tie this morning, meaning you were going to talk to a witness or complainant. It’s gone now, so they gave you a useful lead and you followed it. Judging by your shoes, fingernails, and which pocket your warrant card is in, you made an arrest today.”

Sherlock’s expression is relaxed and fond. Greg can’t resist the temptation to the reach up and touch that full lower lip with his thumb.

“The Sommerset case. Got a new lead from her coworker, found some incriminating files on her home computer, brought the boss down to the yard and he confessed to everything. Felt so good I even let myself put off the paperwork until tomorrow. Partially because tomorrow I won’t forget the nicotine patch.”

“See, I knew you didn’t need my help for that one.”

“I believe your exact words were, ‘child’s play, Greg. I don’t have time for your two’s and three’s!’” Greg softens his accent and exaggerates his mannerisms in what he thinks is a pretty good impression of Sherlock, but always makes the man himself scoff and pout. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he soothes, running his palms up and down Sherlock’s hips and sides. “I feel amazing. Let’s celebrate.”

Sherlock, true to form, bounces back quickly. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Mmm, for anything you like.” Greg slides his right hand up Sherlock’s chest and onto his throat. He grips just tightly enough to make Sherlock follow his motion while he tips them to the side and lands with Sherlock on his back on the sofa, and Greg on top of him, Sherlock’s knees still pressed to his hips.

He’s learned a lot about Sherlock as a sexual being in the two years they’ve been doing this. Sherlock likes anal sex, as long as it’s intense without being too athletic, but he can’t come from prostate stimulation. He loves oral, which is probably why he tolerates Greg’s teasing, edging, and general drawing out of the act as far as he does (to be fair, Greg wouldn’t be so enamored with it if Sherlock didn’t _talk_ through the whole thing) and, if you catch him in the right mood, Sherlock gives the best head in the commonwealth. Mostly, though, Sherlock likes quickies. He likes to kiss, grab, rut, bite and stroke until they both come in their pants; yet another thing about Sherlock that makes Greg feel 20 again.

Greg let’s gravity start to press his weight down onto Sherlock in a short succession: ribs, stomach, hips, groin. He grinds down, hard, _right there_ , where Sherlock’s half-hard and blood-hot already. It earns him a nice, low groan, which has him grinning again.

“Tease,” Sherlock accuses, but he’s smiling too.

“Not a bit of it. Watch this.”

Thrusting at this point would be a mistake, neither of them are ready for it. The best way to start this is gentle, circular motions, just rubbing their erections against each other through their clothes. Greg knows Sherlock’s got silk boxers on under his slacks, so he shoots for just enough pressure to drag the fabric around over Sherlock’s skin. They’re both fully hard and panting in no time.

They don’t kiss yet. Greg likes to watch his face. While it’s gentle and the sensation is building Sherlock looks back into his eyes, but as they start to pick up the pace he can’t maintain it. Greg’s got a rocking motion going now: a bit rough going forward and down, and then a more sensual drag back that makes Sherlock moan and toss his curls around. His heels are digging into Greg’s back now, and his thighs are starting to shake and squeeze Greg’s ribs. He knows Sherlock’s ready to come when he threads his fingers in Greg’s short hair and presses their foreheads together, taking a deep breath right from Greg’s lungs.

Now they kiss, wet and deep. Sherlock never breathes while he’s coming anyway.

When that’s died down a little and Sherlock isn’t so starved for oxygen, Greg puts a hand in front of his mouth and says, “lick.” Sherlock, bless him, understands immediately and laves a very warm and moist tongue over it from the heel to the tip of the middle finger while he frees Greg from his trousers. He’s so close already, and the slickness of his palm feels so good after all the friction, it doesn’t take much to finish him off, right there on Sherlock’s front. He collapses on top of Sherlock and nuzzles into the side of his neck almost immediately.

“Ugh. now we’ll have to have _both_ these trousers dry cleaned.” Sherlock prods him in the side, but it’s definitely more playful than reproachful.

“You dry clean your trousers anyway,” Greg replies, and nips him gently.

“I think you mean you dry clean my trousers. Tomorrow, on your way to work.”

“And if I refuse?”

“How are we supposed to do this again tomorrow without clean trousers?”

“Point.”

They share a long moment of comfortable silence. Greg breathes in the smell of Sherlock, the musky touch of sex between them, and focuses on how the round tips of Sherlock’s delicate fingers and short nails feel gliding over his scalp. He says, softly, so he doesn’t startle him, “I love you, Sherlock.”

He’s said it before of course, mostly when he thought Sherlock was asleep. Sherlock doesn’t spook. He says, “I know.” Greg can hear the soft smile in his voice. He sighs.

“I love you, too, idiot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That you so much to all who are reading and leaving lovely comments, and especially those subscribing and following along. You're wonderful. You can also follow along and otherwise enjoy my antics on Tumblr at call-me-yt.tumblr.com. This story is tagged casetrinityblack. See you all next week!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a warm welcome back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a few hours late posting this but I haven't been to bed yet so I'm calling it a win. Hopefully I'll be more on time next week. A small amount of violence this chapter (a fist fight) but nothing too graphic. I hope everyone is enjoying this as much as I am!

John Watson is being followed. There are three of them: young men, all dressed differently, trying to keep their distance but watching too intently not to be noticed. They must be communicating but John can’t tell how; their lips never move. They’re holding a perimeter around him, never less than two meters from him or each other, and constantly circling.

At first he tries to ignore it. He tells himself he’s imagining it, even thinks about calling his therapist, who’s office he _just left dammit_ , and telling her she’s useless because he is clearly having a panic attack. He’s not actually, though. He feels calm and steady. The tremor that’s been his constant companion since he woke up in the hospital has smoothed out and his leg just barely aches at the joint. This is the best he’s felt in the two weeks he’s been home.

He changes trains, heads for the high street, just to be sure. They fan out on the platform, surrounding him but not trying to herd him, and get on the same car, one at each end and the third a respectful distance away. A young woman eyes his cane and offers him her seat. For a moment he’s torn between wanting to be polite and appear normal, and not wanting to feeling vulnerable. Just then, mercifully, a visibly pregnant woman gets on the train and he can insist she have the seat. All three men look on, indifferent but intent. When John exits the car two stops later, they all straighten up and follow him.

John walks down the street, leaning heavily on his cane for show, contemplating his next move. The street is surprisingly empty, but he supposes it makes sense at this time of day, after lunch but before rush hour. He contemplates ducking into a pub, seeing if they’ll follow him somewhere still public but a little more intimate; somewhere other people are more likely to notice what they’re doing. He could go in the front door and then walk right out the back, try to lose them. It’s not the best plan, but it’s all he’s got at the moment, especially unarmed.

Cursing himself for his _‘Don’t bring the gun to therapy, Watson. You’re proving you need therapy just by having the gun_ ,’ internal monologue this morning, he picks a pub at random and pulls open the door. It’s dim inside, only a few people scattered around watching something on the television above the bar, and no bartender in sight. Perfect. He puts his head down, exaggerates his limp some more, and heads straight for the alley exit.

Through the back door and into the humid afternoon air, John turns to the left, intending to make his way back to the tube station through alleys and back streets. He’s only a little surprised and very annoyed to find one of his pursuers standing at the end of the alley waiting for him. He can hear the footsteps of another coming from the opposite direction and he strains to listen for the position of the third. They’re not far from the street, but even with his leg feeling good as new there’s no way he can get past without a fight even if he could outrun them, which he’s not exactly confident of. Nothing for it then.

John tips the end of his cane up and lets it slide through his hand so he can grab onto the foot and use the heavier handle like a club. He tests the weight and balance, and adjusts his grip until it’s comfortable.

“You don’t have to do this boys. Why don’t we all just take a moment to think about this. It’s not going to go well for anyone. Let’s just turn around, back the ways we came, and go home. I don’t know what you want, but I’m telling you right now: it’s not worth it.” John was pleased to find his command voice intact and unwavering.

The men surrounding him, however, don’t seem impressed. They’re still and quiet as John looks between them. No one acknowledges as the third man joins them from John’s right, shuffling a bit and looking alternately resolved and confused.

John tries again, more amiable this time. “Who put you up to this, hmm? Was it James Sholto? Whatever he’s paying you, it’s not enough. I’ll match it in pints, right inside. What do you say?”

Number three, the late comer, makes a choked noise. John makes eye contact with him and he looks pained and unhappy. “You alright, mate?”

The string of words that come out of the young man’s mouth make no sense. John’s certain most of them aren’t English but some he catches: _Belgravia, phone_ , and _help_.

John reaches out with his empty right hand, intending to steady the kid if he starts to fall, but apparently that’s the cue for the fight to begin.

The man to John’s left goes immediately for the collar of his coat and yanks. He’s strong, but nowhere near strong enough to pull John off his feet; all he gets is John’s elbow in his solar plexus and a sharp kick to the shin with the side of John’s foot. John’s grabbed from the other side and punched soundly in the ribs twice, air forced out of his lungs in a heavy, pained pant. He swings his cane with both hands, like a cricket bat, catching the other man under the chin and knocking him back a few paces. Blood pours from his open mouth, but he doesn’t make a sound. The third man is looking more frightened by the second. John is trying to communicate with him again when the first attacker wraps his arms around John’s chest and arms and lifts him up off the ground. Without thinking, John throws his head back and connects with the man’s nose. Again, he hears the crack of the bone breaking, but no sounds of pain. The arms around his body loosen enough for him to force his way out and shove the butt of his cane through his fist and into the stomach of the man behind him. He doesn’t turn around but hears the man sail backwards and knock over a set of metal bins. The second attacker is on him again, trying to get a hand around his throat, but John’s faster and stomps down hard on the arch of his foot, landing a couple of quick blows to the chest right after. When he feels a sharp tug high on the sleeve of his jacket he throws out his arm and swings the handle of his cane in the direction it came from, where it connects with the skull of the third man, right behind his left ear. There’s a sickening, wet smack as the young man’s head hits the brick facade of the pub, bounces off, and his body falls heavily to the ground.

The back door John had used to come into the alley swings open and an older gentleman in an apron steps out into the alley. “What in hell is happening out here?”

The other two men stare a moment, panting, glance at each other, then take off running down the alley and out of sight. John pauses a minute to catch his breath, then drops his cane and kneels by the incapacitated man on the alley floor.

“Call 999,” he tells the man at the door. “This man needs medical attention.”

“What? Who are you?”

John turns his upper body to toward the onlooker and summons his command voice again. “I said call an ambulance!”

He checks the unconscious man’s vitals and finds a weak pulse and no breath sounds. His hands come away bloody. He lifts the man’s eyelids and finds uneven pupils in a sea of bloodshot yellow. Fractured skull, John’s mind supplies, and he immediately sinks into habitual movements; a sweet state of consciousness where his hands know what to do without much direction from his mind and he can drift away in favor of focusing on the life resting in them. Bracing the young man’s neck, he rolls him carefully over, fully on his back, so he can check the airway and feel for broken ribs. Finding no obstructions or lung damage, John starts CPR, counting compressions silently to himself as he was taught, even though he could never stop his lips moving.

He’s still doing it when the paramedics arrive.

 

**~*~**

 

“You’re telling me _that_ man took on three blokes in their 20’s, and not only is he fine, he _killed_ one of them?”

“He hit the bloke, the bloke hit a brick wall. We’re not sure yet which killed him. Watson claims the three followed him for miles and attacked him, but we have no CCTV of it and he’s almost unharmed. A few bruises and a sprained ankle. The victim is a cab driver, supposed to have been working all day but never called in. Watson’s a combat veteran just home from Afghanistan; admitted he was going back to his flat from an appointment with a therapist. PTSD, you know. I think we may have an,” DI Dimmock leans in to Greg’s shoulder and lowers his voice like he doesn’t want the next part to be overheard, “ _unfortunate case_ on our hands.”

 “What are you on about?”

 “You know! Sometimes, these men, when they come home from the war they’re not quite right. He’s awfully calm for someone who just killed a man, even in self defense, don’t you think? He insists they followed him through a train change. Said they had yellow eyes and made no sense when they spoke. He’s paranoid and delusional, Lestrade. I think we ought to try to get him on a psychiatric hold.”

 Now, that has Greg’s attention. “Yellow eyes?”

 “Yeah. Said it must have been drugs or something, but when the paramedics got there the blokes eyes were clear. The responding officer said Watson seemed confused but not upset and agreed to come give a statement quite peacefully. Nothing about this adds up quite right. I’m waiting on toxicology on the victim but I don’t expect anything.”

 Greg’s Laundry sense is tingling. Ever since the night three years ago, when he walked in on Sherlock trying to humanely trap and relocate a tentacle creature from the Black Lagoon, he’s been developing and honing a sixth sense that tells him when he’s in the vicinity of otherworldly forces from which he should hide, preferably behind Sherlock. He glances at John Watson through the one way glass and feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

 “Let me make a phone call. I want someone to interview him while we wait.”

 Dimmock shrugs.

Safely back in his office, Greg takes out his mobile and calls Sherlock.

“Do you have something good for me,” Sherlock asks, always one to skip pleasantries.

“I think we may have got one of yours by accident. I want you to come down and interview him and see what you think.”

“What do you mean ‘one of mine’? If it’s not a murder and also a five or better I’m not-”

“I’m serious Sherlock,” Greg interrupts. “We’ve got a man down here who says he killed one of three men who attacked him this evening outside a tube station. Said they had yellow eyes and were talking gibberish. Sounds like it might be Laundry business, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Could just as easily be gang or drug related.”

“That’s what he thought, but the eyes were clear postmortem and the other two got away so we have nothing to go on. Dimmock seems convinced the man’s cracked. I think he wants to arrest him for murder. Just come down and talk to him, love, see if the Laundry might have jurisdiction. It could keep an innocent man out of prison.”

There’s silence on the other end for a moment. Then a short, put-upon sigh.

“Fine. I’ll take a cab. Wait for me downstairs; if I try to get anywhere in that building alone Sargent Donovan will intercept and interrogate  _me_ . It’s like she can sense me…”

“Alright. I’ll see you there.”

 

**~*~**

 

When Sherlock arrives Greg is waiting in the lobby, as promised. They get him signed in and get onto the first elevator. As they’re riding up in silence, Sherlock reaches out and takes one of Greg’s hands in his and squeezes. They’re not exactly ‘out’ at Scotland Yard. Between Greg’s bosses and Sherlock’s reputation among the rest of homicide division they agreed it would be best not to advertise their partnership or put it down on anything official. Neither of them are exactly happy about it but it’s working for them so far and Sherlock enjoys having a secret more than he would ever admit. He loves stolen little moments, like now, where he can be a little affectionate, just enough to reassure them both, before pulling away as soon as the elevator stops so no one will see. Greg doesn’t bother to wipe the smile off his face as they get off.

They manage to avoid Sally Donovan on the way to the interrogation room where John Watson is still sitting, quietly sipping tea. Sherlock pauses to assess him through the one-way glass. Dimmock opens his mouth to address the room, but Sherlock holds up a hand to silence him and says, “I’ll draw my own conclusions. I don’t want your idiotic ideas in my head, coloring my deductions. Lestrade, can’t you find something else for him to do? He’s putting me off.”

DI Dimmock protests. “Wait a minute, this is my case-”

Greg is quick to jump in and mediate. “I know, just do us a favor and take a break, alright? Have a cup of coffee. I’ll watch him for now, don’t worry.”

Dimmock looks disgruntled, but goes. Sherlock stares hard for another moment, observing, then strides through the interrogation room door swiftly and shuts it behind him. He sits down at the small table opposite John Watson, folding his hands together on the table top.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John startles, just a bit. Mostly at the non-sequitur. Sherlock realized it’s an odd way to start a conversation, which is why it’s telling. Besides, if he introduced himself the man would have questions and Sherlock doesn’t have the time or inclination to answer anything about himself.

“Sorry?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John side-eyes him, eyes narrowed, looking much like Greg does when he suspects Sherlock is being manipulative. “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-”

“You haven’t been back in London long. How did you manage to make enemies so quickly?” Sherlock doesn’t bother to apologize for talking over him. He takes out his mobile and opens his Thaumometer app. He’s improved on the standard Laundry version, so not only can he detect magical energy in the room, he can see it’s source, all while looking as if he’s merely texting.

“I don’t have any enemies. I have no idea who those men were. They probably just wanted my wallet, they were all obviously high.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The whites of their eyes were yellowish, like they were malnourished, but they were all young men, and strong. They displayed detachment, hyper-focus, total lack of response to painful stimuli; only one of them spoke to me and nothing he said made sense. He was acting especially strange, like he didn’t want to be there. Actually, more like he didn’t know  _why_ he was there…”

Sherlock has stopped and restarted the app while John was speaking to double check his readings. Looking at the man through his phone is like looking at a candle flame through a magnifying glass. A golden glow is emanating from somewhere in the center of his chest and flickering steadily. It takes Sherlock a moment to recognize the pattern as a heartbeat, but once he does he clicks the screen off and pockets the phone again.

“And what, exactly, did he say to you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think most of it was even English. I heard him say Belgravia, and I think he asked me for help. His mates attacked me before I could do anything about it. I didn’t mean to hurt him… I performed CPR but I couldn’t get him breathing on his own. Do you know if they saved him?”

Sherlock ignores the question. It’s only likely to upset him and Sherlock needs clear, concise data. “You did get shot though.”

“What?”

“In Afghanistan, you were wounded. That’s why you’re back in London.”

“Oh. Yes; shoulder.”

“Thought so. Thank you for your time doctor Watson. You’ll be done here shortly.”

John stares after him, slack jawed, as Sherlock rises and leaves the room, texting. He shuts the door and looks to Greg, but he can tell Sherlock’s mind is already gone. He’s got something and can’t wait to get out of here and run with it.

“You were right,” he says, a bit begrudgingly. “He is one of mine. I’ve already texted Mycroft; two agents dressed as military police will be here soon to pick him up. I’m going with them for now, but I’ll be home tonight. Don’t wait up.”

With that he’s gone again, out the door and down the hall toward the elevators.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, and general love make me squee and clap my hands. Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
